Thursday, May 5, 2022

April 29: Rhythm

 

Rhythm
by Tom King

Speech has a rhythm all its own,
And varies from location to location.
The angry staccato of the Germanic tongues
And Japanese that seem made for shouting orders
To soldiers standing in close formation
Gruff sounds of the native American nations,
To go with beating drums and warlike proclamations,
And for working up courage before a fight.
The sexual rhythms of the romance speakers,
Easy languid words suitable for wooing women or men for that matter.
Then there's the rapid fire clipped speech of the subcontinent.
The aggressive, fist shaking enunciation of the Middle East.
Greek sounds to me like mathematics problems;
Russian like large men, cold and trying to stay warm with vodka.
African communication rings of drums and music and dancing.
And English? The language of thieves who have stolen all the best,
So we can order soldiers around like the Germans,
Romance women like the French,
Bark like angry shopkeepers enunciating like in Mandarin,
Sing with the bemused music of the South Pacific,
But only if we want to, otherwise we're as flat-toned as
The anchors on the nightly news.
English has those lovely dialects depending on who came here,
Seeking shelter from persecution somewhere or other.
We hear echoes of the Scots and Irish in the hills of Tennessee.
We hear the Yorkshire dales, the Scottish highlands, and the slight drawl
Of the British midlands and the Irish west out in Texas and the West.
In the North we hear the cold uplands of Europe, Scandinavia, Britain,
Eastern Europe, Slavic folks, French Huguenots and country folk from Italy.
Americans have absorbed a lot of dialects, gentled some of them.
Appropriated all the very best words and pronunciations.
Scots got more mellow. I don't think Americans have the abdominal strength,
To carry that accent full time. It requires too much diaphragm.
I like English precisely for it's thievery.
We've stolen all the best words and when and if
Some language finds a better word for something,
We just swipe the word and make its music ours.
And if our poetry seems to be whatever we want it to be,
That's fine too. If we like the sound of it,
We just forget the rhyme and sometimes even the rhythm.
Some language snobs like the French
With their government language purity councils,
Think we're lazy, but we're not.
We're just creative and, for now, we're used to being free,
Even in the very words and how we speak 'em.
So the rest of Earth can quit feeling all superior.
Just shut up and listen, guys. The movie is about to start,
And the actors sound a bit like y'all.

© 2022 by Tom King



Wednesday, May 4, 2022

April 28: A Scots Descendant Talks Haggis


On Haggis
by Tom King

I've never in person seen a haggis.
Not a salty, bitter or a sweet one.
But I can tell you this right now,
I'd rather see than eat one!

© 2022 by Tom King

April 27: Down at the Flea Market

 


 Down at the Flea Market
                 by Tom King

 Living the raggedy life on the raggedy edge,
   Retail for the most part is out of my range,
So, for much of my life, the flea market's been
   My JC Penny's, my Sears. Goods for small change.
Fat folk in spandex, old men in saggy jeans.
   Jammed cheek by jowl, shirttails hanging out,
Examine the piles of other people's unwanted stuff,
   Treasures spotted on the day's aimless walkabout.
Stuff the sellers lay out, things no longer wanted.
   Stuff to sell to me, much I didn't know I'd need.
And got to have at prices I can haggle down,
   Toys I've forgotten, books I really have to read.
Someone inevitably asks, "What'd you need that for?"
   I'm not sure, but I've never yet willingly parted
With something I found among the market fleas,
   Everything just seems to be a project someday started.
Perhaps because I found it cheap and unexpected,
   It feels like some kind of discovered treasure
And it's true I haven't got round to using them, yet.
   But someday, they'll give me just a little pleasure.  

                                           ...at the great deal I got. 

© 2022 by Tom King